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A. by E. Doyle-Gillespie Drinking for two in her Night Cafe, I listen to drag queens pump street boys for latest potions and love indiscriminate down by the harbor warehouse palace, blacktalk project jabber, and screaming blue siren laments that slice through her prose like rain And she talks to me through moving hands and sad red curls that leave her mercifully blind, mercifully lost, in Klimpt and Rilke, so that I seem to her like Odysseus, Kerouac and Jesus Christ Himself carrying this stone up my own Golgotha |
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Document last modified on: 08/20/1998